Fatal Breath
by thedragonaunt
Summary: It was just a myth, a legend, a story told to frighten the children. So why had it suddenly started to come true? Sequel to 'Stolen'. Established Sherlolly/Parentlock and Mycroft/OC. May contain scenes which some people might find upsetting. Rated T for now but may change later. Ref: The Thomas Ingolsby Legends: 'Nell Cook - A Legend of the Dark Entry - The King's Scholar's Story'
1. Fatal Breath The Prologue

**This story has been bubbling away in my head for weeks and now I think it's ready to be told. I hope you like it.**

**Fatal Breath**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

Sherlock Holmes stood in the shadows, squeezed into a narrow alcove, his back pressed to the wall, hidden from view to any casual observer - of which there were none. He had been standing there for nearly three hours. He knew this thanks to the timely reminders of the repeater chimes, which sounded every 15 minutes from the cathedral clock tower, and the striking of the hours. And now it was gone midnight so, officially, it was no longer Friday night.

He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow into a frown - partly of annoyance at his wasted evening and partly due to disappointment. He had just spent three hours standing stock still on this freezing cold December night, waiting for someone he was absolutely certain would not turn up. By rights he should have been smugly self-satisfied to have been proven right in his assumptions yet again but at some level he had actually hoped she would put in an appearance. This was another reason for his annoyance - with himself for being so illogical.

The quarter hour chimed once again. He wondered idly how the locals put up with all this ringing of bells. Didn't it keep them awake at night? He assumed they must just get used to it and filter out the chimes - as he had with the traffic on Baker Street. There was very little traffic noise on the crescent where he lived now and what there was was effectively blocked by the new double glazing. Also, the master bedroom which he shared with his wife of almost one year was on the side of the house and therefore shielded, to some extent, from both noise and light from the street.

His mind strayed to a warm, inviting bed and the warm, inviting person who would currently be occupying that bed but he quickly banished such thoughts as they were a dangerous distraction.

He resisted the urge to stamp some warmth back into his icy extremities, not because he thought it might give away his position - there was, after all, absolutely no one around to witness it! - but because he hated to submit to such a weakness. This stake out was a complete waste of time, he finally acknowledged to the John Avatar in his Mind Palace, who simply shrugged his shoulders in a manner which positively oozed 'I told you so.'

Taking an executive decision, he pushed off from the wall and marched purposefully along the Dark Entry in the direction of the cathedral itself, past the Main Library which housed all the archives and records, in the care of the Dean and Chapter. Like every other building in the Precincts, it was securely locked and shrouded in darkness at this late hour. As he approached the arched portal which led to the monastic ruins which bordered the northern aspect of this great and ancient ecclesiastical building, a movement in the air – no more than a breath – caught his attention and arrested his progress. He froze and employed all his distance senses to search the impenetrable dark for the source of that phenomenon.

'Please, sir, could you help me?' a reedy voice enquired.

He brought up his arm, simultaneously switching on the mag light held tight in his hand, and aimed the beam in the direction of the utterance.

Immediately in front of him, on the opposite side of the wrought iron gate which gave access to the cloisters, crypt and, via the Dean's Steps, the cathedral itself, stood a woman dressed entirely in black from head to toe. She was small in stature - perhaps five feet tall - and her posture was stooped, making her appear even shorter. In one gloved hand, she held the handle of a walking stick on which she leaned quite heavily. Her other hand was held in front of her face, shielding her eyes from the glare of his torch as she spoke again.

'_Can_ you help me, please? I am unable find my way out.'

Sherlock stepped up to the metal railings of the gate and looked down at her.

'One must ask how you found your way in,' he drawled, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

'The gate was not locked when I entered, sir,' she replied, with more than a hint of indignation.

'Well, I don't have a key but I might be able to assist you,' he replied, before transferring the handle of the torch to his mouth and reaching into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve his lock pick kit.

'Let me see now...' he murmured, unfolding the kit and scanning the contents in the torchlight before selecting the right tool for the job. He then looked up once more to give the woman an obsequious smirk before getting to work on the padlock which secured the gate.

But she was gone.

ooOoo


	2. Fatal Breath Chapter One

**Chapter One**

'William! It's time to come in, now. We're leaving in ten minutes,' Molly called from the back door of the family home. Despite having an extra pair of hands now, mornings in the Hooper-Holmes household was no less chaotic. In fact, they were probably worse.

Having given William his ten minute warning, Molly returned to the kitchen where Sherlock was assisting Violet with her breakfast – assisting being the operative word since Violet was very assertive in her desire to be independent, even at this early age. The tray of her highchair presented an eclectic mix of finger food items for her to select, including chopped banana, rusk, slices of peach and a handful of dried fruit.

Violet, who had already had her morning breast feed from Molly, was earnestly engaged in the task of choosing which items of solid food to eat, poking said item with a pointy finger then chasing it around the tray until she managed to grasp it in her fist before transferring it to her mouth for consumption. Sherlock's role was to field any food items which looked likely to be pushed over the edge of the tray and move them out of danger. So long as he didn't step outside his remit, breakfast would proceed amicably, to an accompaniment of smiles and gurgles from the diner. But woe betide if he presumed to embellish his role in any way. Violet was singularly eloquent when expressing displeasure.

Molly had really appreciated the convenience of the hospital crèche when William and Freddie were babies – being able to drop them off in the morning and pick them up at the end of the day and always having them near, should any misadventure befall them. And, in the early days, she used to pop down there in her lunch break for a cuddle and a comfort feed – comfort for both mother and child. But it seemed ridiculous to pay for a crèche place for Violet when they had a full time live-in nanny so, when Molly resumed her role of pathologist at St Bart's Hospital at the end of her maternity leave when little Violet was just six months old, it was agreed that the baby would be looked after at home. However, three months on, Molly had still not quite come to terms with kissing her baby goodbye at eight in the morning and not seeing her again until half past five, at the earliest. She and Sherlock had had this conversation many times but Molly was adamant that crèche places should be reserved for those who really needed them.

She bent to kiss her baby on the forehead and received a delighted smile as her reward. Sherlock noted the down-turned corners of his wife's mouth and knew the cause but said nothing. As Molly straightened up, he pulled her into his lap and wrapped her in his arms.

'Don't work too hard,' he murmured, his lips brushing her ear.

'I'll try not to,' she replied, returning his embrace then breaking free to shrug into her coat.

'What are you up to today?' she asked him, as she wound her scarf around her neck and pulled on her woolly hat.

'No idea,' he replied, having not checked his emails yet. 'Ah, William, how are the bees?' he asked, as his eldest son came into the room.

'I can hear them vibrating, Daddy!' William exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder. 'So they must be feeling the cold but Mr Hedges says they have a good supply of honey so they should be fine as long as it doesn't stay this cold for too long.'

Mr Hedges was the local bee keeper who had supplied William with his hive and his colony of honey bees and was helping the novice apiarist to care for his charges. He had explained to William that honey bees don't hibernate but remain active all winter and that the worker bees cluster around the queen and the brood, in cold weather, to keep them warm and that they feed off the honey and generate heat within the hive by vibrating their flight muscles.

William was taking his bee-keeping responsibilities very seriously and checked on his hive every morning before leaving for school. As today was the first really cold day of the winter so far, he had heard the bees vibrating for the very first time and was clearly quite excited about that.

'That's good to know,' Sherlock replied, giving William a hug before he went to collect his school bag and violin from his room. The door to the front hall burst open and Freddie charged in. William niftily side-stepped his brother's dramatic entrance and disappeared out of the room whilst Sherlock scooped Freddie up from the floor and into his lap.

Freddie was still Violet's favourite person in the world and she paused in her pursuit of a particularly tricky chunk of banana and chuckled with glee at his sudden appearance, waving her arms and kicking her legs energetically. Freddie laughed back at his sister and they enjoyed this moment of mutual mirth before Sherlock intervened, saying,

'OK, playtime over. Freddie, give me a hug and then off you go to school.'

Freddie obliged by throwing his arms around his father's neck and giving him a wet kiss on the cheek.

'Bye-bye, Daddy. Hab a lubbly day! And you, too, Ada,' he added, using his personalised pet name for his sister. Everyone else in the family – even William - only called Violet, now.

Marie, the nanny, popped her head round the door.

'Come on, Freddie, it's time to go. We don't want to be late, do we?' she urged.

Sherlock kissed his youngest son on the head, wished him a lovely day, plonked him back on the floor and waved as he ran off to join his brother in the front hall.

Molly passed Freddie in the doorway as she rushed back in to give Violet another goodbye kiss and Sherlock a further farewell hug - and then they were all gone, with the sound of the front door closing firmly in their wake.

Marie walked back into the kitchen, looking a little harassed after seeing two of her charges off to school with their mother, and said to Sherlock,

'Shall I take over there?'

'I think she's almost finished so I'll see it through, thanks. Why don't you sit down and have a cup of tea?' he suggested.

'I think I just might do that,' Marie agreed, pushing her hair out of her eyes and heading for the kettle.

Sherlock looked back at Violet and smiled as she stuffed the last slice of peach into her mouth and munched on it with her six teeth – four in the bottom and two in the top.

'That's my girl!' he grinned.

'Da-da-da-da-da-da,' she replied.

ooOoo

Molly had opted to take the boys by bus to school – William to his Year 3 classroom and Freddie to the Foundation group - on her way to work each day, where she bid them goodbye with hugs and kisses, before taking the ten minute walk to St Bart's. She rather enjoyed the physical exercise this provided and she was able to use this transition time between home life and work life to clear her head and gather her thoughts in preparation for the day ahead.

One of the best things about her job was that no two days were ever the same. As with all jobs, there were the mundane, routine aspects but there was also mystery and intrigue and an element of problem-solving, which she loved. Each new body had its own story to tell. Some were very forth-coming and shared their secrets generously but others were more reticent, kept everything concealed, challenging her to winkle them out. She liked those ones the best.

She had no idea what she might find waiting when she arrived at her office in St Bart's Pathology Department, as she joined the throng of commuters hurrying towards their daily destinations, but she looked forward with relish to whatever it might be. Even though Molly was still feeling the pain of separation from Violet, she had no regrets about returning to work.

ooOoo

Having locked her coat and hand bag in her locker in the staff room, Molly made her way to the lab where her office was located. She pushed through the heavy fire doors into the laboratory and looked around for her colleague who had been on night duty.

'Morning, Amanda,' she called. 'Anything interesting today?'

Amanda Winterbotham, her erstwhile maternity cover, was now officially on the staff as a Registrar Pathologist. This was a grade of training for practitioners who had completed their basic medical training but now wished to specialise in a particular area of medicine. Despite her rather shaky start at St Bart's, during Molly's absence Amanda had cleaned up her act and made a good impression so, when the vacancy arose for a Registrar, she applied and was accepted. She did seem to have learned her lesson and, since Molly's return, she had found the new girl to be a useful member of staff.

'Oh, good morning, Dr Hooper,' Amanda greeted her, politely, crossing to the box bearing the various clipboards which held the paperwork pertaining to the work of the department and from which the staff could access and process it. 'Nothing too challenging, I don't think. It's been a quiet night.'

Molly joined her at the box and flicked though the collection of clipboards contained therein. One sudden death from a suspected heart attack, two hospital deaths, both unexpected, and a teenaged victim of an RTA. Molly picked up the RTA.

'Oh, dear,' she sighed. She always felt a pang of sadness over the deaths of young people. So much unfulfilled potential was such a sad loss to the world, not withstanding the personal tragedy. 'Let's take you first, if there's no urgency on any of these others.'

'No, that one is the highest priority,' Amanda informed her. 'The police are making a case for dangerous driving.'

'Ok, thanks. You get off home, now, and get some sleep,' Molly replied, with a smile.

Amanda took her leave and Molly made her way to her office to check her emails before going down to the mortuary to perform her first post mortem of the day.

ooOoo

Sherlock stepped from the cab and entered 221B Baker Street through the front door. He paused by the hall table to check the mail and heard Mrs Hudson's door open. She had clearly been listening for his arrival and the haste in her step as she came along the hallway towards him suggested that she had something of importance to convey.

'Yes, Mrs Hudson, what is it?' he asked, still sifting through the mail.

'A lady called,' she replied, with a perculiar edge to her voice.

He turned to look at her and raised one eyebrow questioningly. His landlady appeared rather agitated, transferring her weight from one foot to the other and wringing her hands whilst glancing nervously toward the front door.

'And?' Sherlock asked when Mrs H made no move to give any further information. 'What did she want?'

'Well, she asked for you. I imagine it's to do with a case.'

'Did she leave a number for me to call her back?' he enquired, wondering why his landlady was behaving so strangely over something so commonplace as a client's enquiry.

'Oh, no! She didn't call on the phone. She called at the house,' Mrs H explained.

Sherlock gave her an encouraging nod, hoping this might elicit further information but it did not. The lady continued her little agitated dance.

'Mrs Hudson, is there something that you're not telling me?' he asked, eventually.

Stepping forward and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Mrs Hudson replied,

'She was a lady vicar.'

Sherlock was still confused.

'So? What of it?'

'Well, you know…a _lady_ vicar!'

'Mrs Hudson, there have been female clergy in the Church of England since the 1980's. It's really nothing unusual,' he declared.

'Oh, well, if you say so…' she replied, waving her hands, dismissively.

'I don't say so, I know so. Now, what did she want?'

'Well, I really don't know. She didn't say,' Mrs Hudson replied, looking rather put out about the whole matter, at which point Sherlock's patience ran out and he turned back to his letters with a disgruntled huff.

'I told her you wouldn't be long so she went next door for a coffee,' Mrs Hudson remarked, tartly, as she turned and strutted indignantly back to her flat.

Sherlock turned to her retreating back and shook his head in bewilderment but resisted the urge to ask why she could not have said that in the first place and saved them both a lot of time and confusion. He was mindful of Molly's cautioning words on the subject of elderly ladies and their unique perspective on the world. Instead, he put the handful of letters back on the hall table and headed for the café next door to find the disconcerting lady vicar.

As he entered the café, he gave a nod to Mr Chatterjee behind the counter and was rewarded with a nod in return, thus securing his 'usual' – black coffee, two sugars – then walked to the table where a lady in a dog collar sat perusing the daily newspaper with an empty coffee mug in front of her. When he stopped by her table, she looked up and smiled.

'Mr Holmes?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied and she inclined her head, inviting him take the vacant chair opposite.

'Rachel Morris,' she introduced herself, offering her hand which he took and shook briefly.

'And what can I do for you, Miss Morris?' he asked.

'It's Canon Morris, actually,' she corrected, 'but please call me Rachel. I'm here on a rather delicate matter which I'd rather not discuss in such a public place, if you wouldn't mind.' She gave an apologetic smile.

Sherlock shrugged and stood up again, just as the café proprietor arrived with his coffee.

'I'll take that with me, thank you,' he said, relieving Mr Chatterjee of the steaming mug. 'After you, Rachel.'

He indicated the exit with his free arm so the canon stood and preceded him from the café. The café owner made a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to return his mug at her earliest convenience.

Once upstairs, in his sitting room, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, dropping them on the sofa, and invited Canon Morris to do the same and take a seat in 'John's chair'. He sat in his leather and stainless steel chair, placed his coffee on the side table and steepled his fingers under his chin, to indicate that he was ready to hear the lady's story. She dutifully obliged.

'I have been asked to speak to you by the Dean of Canterbury Cathedral,' she began, 'but because of the nature of this…matter, the Dean cannot be involved and this conversation must be completely confidential.'

She paused, obviously waiting for a reassurance. Sherlock raised his eyebrows then said,

'Most things said to me by clients in this room are of a delicate nature and therefore completely confidential, Canon Morris. Do please go on.'

She seemed to accept that as an assurance and so continued.

'Have you heard of the Ingoldsby Legends, Mr Holmes?'

'No,' he replied, succinctly.

'It's a collection of myths and legends, ghost stories and poems, written by Thomas Ingoldsby in the 1830's. Thomas Ingoldsby is in fact the pen name of the Reverend Richard Harris Barham. The stories are all rather fanciful and were intended, I think, as a form of entertainment at the time they were written. Most people, like yourself, have never heard of them – unless you happen to live in Canterbury and, most specifically, in the Cathedral Precincts. You see, one of the stories is very particular to the precincts – to a certain place in the precincts – so is familiar to everyone who lives there.

It tells the story of a certain young lady called Ellen Bean who worked as a cook for one of the cathedral canons. According to the tale, the canon takes in his niece while her father is abroad but Ellen – or Nelly Cook, as the canon calls her – suspects that the 'niece' is actually the canon's mistress and Nell is rather jealous, perhaps because she had previously held that position.

Anyway, Nell puts fire irons in the niece's bed and they stay there for six whole weeks so, by that, she proves that the canon and the woman are indeed sleeping together. In a jealous rage, Nell puts poison in a pie which the canon and his lover eat and promptly die. For her sins, Nell is buried alive under a flag stone in the Dark Entry – which is a passage in the precincts that links the Green Court with the Oaks – and she dies.

Two hundred years later, according to the story, the slab comes loose and is lifted up for renovation, revealing the skeleton of Nell Cook. Unfortunately, this act releases her vengeful spirit which, from then on, haunts the Dark Entry on Friday nights – Friday night being the night when the poison pie was eaten and Nell was incarcerated. According to the legend, anyone who passes through the Dark Entry on a Friday night and feels Nell's cold breath will die within the year.'

Having finished relating the tale of Nell Cook, Canon Morris sat back in her seat and looked at her audience. Sherlock had been listening patiently to the story with his eyes closed in a contemplative manner not because he found the content remotely interesting but because the canon had a particularly distinctive and melodic voice, which he found quite mesmerising. Now she had stopped speaking he opened his eyes and unsteepled his hands, placing them on the arms of his chair. He pursed his lips.

'Fascinating though that was, Canon Morris,' he said with more than a touch of irony, 'I don't really see where I come in.'

'In the last three months, Mr Holmes, on four separate occasions, individuals have claimed to meet a strange lady in the Dark Entry on a Friday night. And every one of those people has subsequently suffered a sudden demise.'

ooOoo


	3. Fatal Breath Chapter Two

**Sorry this update is a bit short but it moves the plot along a little. These dark winter days are not very conducive to my creativity, I fear! Can't hardly wait for the Spring!**

**Chapter Two**

Molly came through from the bathroom into the master bedroom to find Sherlock reclining on the bed, flat on his back, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on his chest. He had been rather pensive and distracted all evening, although he had made an effort to be sociable with the children during supper and bedtime. But once they were in bed, he had lapsed into silence then taken himself off to the bedroom, to be on his own.

Molly recognised the symptoms. Sherlock was on a case.

She sat at the dressing table and gave her hair a good brushing, sneaking occasional glances at her husband through the mirror. He never moved except for his brows beetling intermittently. She wondered what was going on in that funny old head of his.

Having completed her bedtime beauty regime, Molly crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, crawling over the mattress and laying down beside the other occupant. She rested her head against his shoulder and waited.

After a moment or two, Sherlock registered her presence and, with a slow inhalation of breath, opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her.

'Hello, stranger,' Molly moued.

'Sorry,' he replied, stretching his arm to wrap it around her shoulders and pull her close into his side.

'No need to apologise,' she murmured, turning towards him and smoothing her hand over his chest. 'Tricky case?'

'Tricky – yes. Case? I'm not sure. On the face of it, there is no case, but the details are intriguing.'

'Tell me more,' she encouraged. So he did.

_Sherlock stared at Canon Morris, carefully considering what his next utterance should be. He had learned over the last few years that such considerations were advisable if one were to avoid giving offence. And he had no desire to offend this lady representative of the church. She seemed very sincere._

'_How did these people die?' he asked, eventually._

'_By various means,' she replied. 'Accident, illness, apparently natural causes.'_

'_So what links them?'_

'_Only the fact that they all reported encountering a strange woman in the Dark Entry and then subsequently died.'_

'_And the local police?'_

'_They are satisfied that none of the deaths are suspicious. They refuse to investigate the matter further.'_

'_Well, for once, I feel I must agree with them. There is no evidence of a crime. And, if you are seriously suggesting a supernatural cause, then I have to say that is your area of expertise, not mine. I hold no belief in such forces.'_

_Canon Morris shook her head and reinforced the gesture with an emphatic hand movement._

'_No, Mr Holmes, I don't believe that there is any supernatural force at work here. But neither do I believe that these four deaths are purely random and unrelated. I don't believe in coincidence.'_

'_Actually, neither do I. The Universe is rarely so lazy.'_

'_I am the Canon Pastor at Canterbury, responsible for the pastoral care of all those who __work and worship at the Cathedral and of the many people who visit each day as pilgrims and tourists__. __ Within the Precincts, we are a very close-knit community. To lose four of our members in such rapid succession, well, people are upset, Mr Holmes. And it transpires that several other people have reportedly seen the strange lady over the last few months and are now in fear of their lives. The Dean is very concerned.'_

'_Not good for business, I shouldn't wonder,' he commented. _

'_In that respect, this situation could not have come at a worse time. The Anglican Church is not without its problems, at the moment. What with the ordination of female bishops and the whole issue of gay priests, the church is in danger of a serious schism. The local newspaper had had a bit of a field day with this ghost story and the national press has taken it up, with some pretty lurid headlines, which have attracted the attention of…shall we say, the wrong sort of pilgrim. The precincts have been besieged by an army of ghost hunters and so-called psychics, spouting all kinds of mumbo-jumbo.'_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that remark._

'_Yes, I know, Mr Holmes. Some would say the church is no stranger to mumbo-jumbo but this is getting out of hand. We've even had to close the gates, on a couple of occasions, for the safety of the residents.'_

_Canon Morris looked most perturbed._

'_We have a boarding school attached to the cathedral – seven boarding houses and three day houses situated within the precincts and five more boarding houses in St Augustine's, just across the road. That's eight hundred students coming and going to lessons every day. We also have the Choir House, where the boy choristers live. The well-being of all these youngsters is paramount. The last thing we need is all this fuss. The parents are not impressed with the press attention - paparazzi snapping away, willy-nilly. It's a Child Protection nightmare.'_

_Sherlock could see her point. If St Paul's Cathedral School were besieged by a pack of hysterical ghost hunters, he would not be happy about leaving William and Freddie there every day._

'_So what do you expect from me, Canon Morris?' he asked._

'_I'd just like you to get to the bottom of it, Mr Holmes. If it's some sort of elaborate hoax, expose it. If there is absolutely no connection between these deaths, prove it. And if there is a sinister force at work – supernatural or otherwise – unmask it. Your reputation precedes you. If anyone can solve this puzzle, you can.'_

'It's a bit of a strange one, even for you,' Molly commented.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow.

'Yes, a very strange one, indeed.'

'It's obviously not a ghost,' she declared.

'Of course not but, if these deaths should prove to be connected, someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of reviving an old legend.'

'Do you think they are connected?'

'Hmmm,' he mused. 'It's the coincidence factor. You know how I feel about coincidence.'

'The Universe is rarely so lazy,' they quoted in unison and then dissolved into a shared fit of giggles, his a deep baritone that resonated in his chest and hers a light, tinkling contralto.

'You know me too well, Mrs Holmes,' Sherlock chuckled, pressing his lips to Molly's temple. 'But there is something about this whole scenario… something that I can't quite put my finger on…' he added, before lapsing back into a pensive mood.

So that's what he'd been doing all evening, thought Molly, scouring his Mind Palace – albeit unsuccessfully - looking for something that linked in some way to this peculiar set of circumstances.

'So, will you take the case?' she enquired, after a short pause, during which she scanned her husband's face in admiration of the mental processes going on behind that facade.

'I've agreed to review the evidence so far,' he replied, at last. 'Canon Morris is sending me the details of the fatalities – post mortem reports and so on – and the newspaper articles, though I don't expect they will be terribly enlightening. She's also given me the name of the investigation officer on the local force, even though he seems convinced that there are no suspicious circumstances.'

'Are you planning to go down there?'

'Perhaps. It's only an hour by train. I could be there and back in a day. But I'll look at the evidence first.'

He turned towards her with a soft smile and ran his finger tips across her cheek and along the line of her jaw, savouring the softness of her skin.

'So, how was your day?' he asked.

'Rather sad, actually,' she replied, with a sudden frown. 'I PM'd an RTA, a young lad, run down on a zebra crossing. Not far from Bart's, actually. Turns out he worked at the hospital as a porter. He was on his way home. They must have hit him at some speed. He was in a terrible mess. It took me nearly the whole day to catalogue all his injuries. Such a waste of a young life and so avoidable,' she concluded. 'The police are looking for the vehicle and the driver but with no luck so far.'

'Molly, I'm so sorry, I should have seen you were upset!' he exclaimed pulling her close.

'No, you shouldn't. You were busy working. And, anyway, I deal with the dead on a daily basis. You would think I'd be used to it by now.'

'Yes, but you care so much,' he murmured.

'Hmm, it's my biggest fault.'

'Well, as faults go, I can think of worse. It's what makes you who you are…the woman I love…' and with that, he caught her round the waist and pulled her on top of him, so that they lay nose to nose. Her hair cascaded down to shroud both their faces.

'And I would not have you any other way,' he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. 'It's fortunate that they have the best pathologist in London on the case, no less,' he declared, running his hands down her spine to rest on the mound of her buttocks and nuzzling at her neck.

'Oh?' she queried, in acknowledgment of his obviously amorous intentions. ' I thought you were on a case?'.

'I haven't decided to take the case yet,' he breathed, 'which means that – as of this moment – I am unemployed.'

'Ooh, lucky me!' Molly cooed, combing her fingers into his hair and resting her forehead on his.

'Lucky us,' he corrected and pre-empted any further discussion by rolling them both over, sliding his hand along her thigh and burrowing his nose into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

'Oh, Molly Hooper, you smell divine,' he sighed. 'And you taste delicious,' he added, as he nibbled along the line of her clavicle.

Molly smoothed her hands over the muscular contours of his shoulders, wrapping her leg round his narrow hips and pressing her body against his, with a soft sigh, as all thoughts of sad demises were put aside in favour of more romantic notions.

ooOoo


	4. Fatal Breath Chapter Three

**My goodness, this chapter has been a beast! I hope it reads OK, now - and not too much like a 'shopping list'!**

**Some references to sudden death and drug abuse but nothing too graphic.**

**Chapter Three **

The next morning, Molly was in her office, putting the final touches to her Post Mortem report on the RTA victim, when she heard the door to the laboratory open and, after a brief pause, a voice called, timidly,

'H-hello? Amanda?'

Molly did not recognised the voice but, since Amanda was not on duty, she rose from her desk and went to the office door to see a woman in nurse's uniform standing in the middle of her pathology lab, looking a little wary.

'Oh! You're not Amanda!' the lady said, rather unnecessarily.

'No, I'm afraid not. She's doing the Twilight shift this week,' Molly explained.

The woman nodded, nervously, then smiled and said,

'You must be Doctor Hooper. Was it your maternity leave that Amanda was covering?'

Molly nodded.

'Well, I'm Nurse McCarthy. How d' you do!' she added, extending a hand to Molly, with a nervous laugh.

'I do very well, thank you!' Molly replied. 'Can I give Amanda a message?'

'Ah, n-no, thank you. I'm not really here to see her. I'm more on a sort of mission, you might say.'

The nurse looked down, shyly and gave another giggle.

Molly gave her an encouraging nod.

'Did you happen to know Jared Shaw?' Nurse McCarthy asked.

'Erm, no, I didn't - at least, not when he was alive,' Molly replied. 'I know him rather well now. I'm just completing his PM report.'

'Oh, poor lamb! So sad!' Nurse McCarthy exclaimed, with a sad shake of her head.

'Was he a friend of your?' Molly asked.

'Oh, no, not as such,' the Nurse explained. 'I'm here more on behalf of his family, really. You see, Jared was a porter here in the hospital – I expect you knew that. Such a kind boy! And so very kind at home, too. His dear mother, she's a single parent and disabled, too, and young Jared looked after her ever since he was a child. He was the family's bread-winner, too, since his mother wasn't..._isn't_ able work and his sisters are still at school. So, you see, they can't possibly afford to give him a decent send-off – well, any kind of send-off, really.'

Nurse McCarthy lapsed into a pensive silence.

Molly waited a few moments then said,

'That is very unfortunate.'

She wondered where this conversation was leading and, also, how she could bring it to an end so that she could get on with her work.

'Yes, very unfortunate indeed. So, I've sort of decided to start a bit of a collection – just around the hospital, of course – to try and raise something to go towards the funeral costs,' Nurse McCarthy stammered, then produced a screw top jar from under her arm, thrusting it awkwardly under Molly's nose. 'Would you be so kind as to make a contribution, Doctor Hooper?'

'Well, that's very considerate of you, Nurse McCarthy, but did you know that the hospital has a benevolent fund? The boy's mother could apply to it for financial assistance with the funeral costs. There's really no need for you to go to so much trouble,' Molly explained, regretfully.

'Oh! Oh, I see!' Nurse McCarthy replied, looking extremely embarrassed. 'I haven't been here long – just a few months. I came whilst you were away. I didn't realise there was a provision for that sort of thing. Oh, dear! Th-thank you for pointing that out to me, Doctor Hooper,' she said, looking even more flustered than before. 'Well, it's lucky for me I came to you first!' the nurse added. 'Otherwise, I would have had to go round and give all the contributions back, wouldn't I? Oh dear!' she gabbled.

'Oh, well, not to worry. No harm done!' Molly exclaimed, feeling equally embarrassed to have discomforted this poor public spirited lady. 'So, are you and Amanda good friends?' she asked, in an effort to brush aside the awkwardness.

'Oh, no, not friends, as such,' Nurse McCarthy explained. 'We're just acquaintances, really. I work on Geriatrics, taking care of the dear old ladies and gentlemen at the end of their days. I like to make them as comfortable as possible, you know? Well, they have earned our respect, haven't they? And when their time comes, I do like to pay my last respects. Amanda is kind enough to help me out. She lets me come down to the mortuary at the beginning or the end of my shift, just to have a quiet word, you know? Just to say goodbye. I do hope that's alright, Doctor Hooper. I wouldn't want to get anyone into trouble.'

Molly couldn't think of a specific reason to object. It showed a high degree of devotion to duty on the part of this nurse. But she wondered whether there might be a protocol for this sort of thing. In her experience, it was only close relatives who were allowed to view bodies in the mortuary – or police, if it was a suspicious death. She would have to check with Amanda to see if she had run it by the Head of Department. But, in the meantime, Nurse McCarthy was talking again.

'You have two of my lovely patients here right now,' she said, 'Mr Shaw and Mrs Bowles. I was wondering if I could…' She stuttered to a halt and looked pleadingly at Molly.

'I'm afraid not,' Molly replied, ruefully. 'Not at the moment, at least.'

She was stalling for time until she could speak to Amanda.

'I'm just about to start PM'ing those two p-people,' she explained, noting that she seemed to have reverted to stammering, too.

'Oh, oh, of course! I thought they would have been done already, since they passed a couple of days ago.'

The nurse was making a valiant effort to hide her disappointment.

'Perhaps you could check back tomorrow?' Molly suggested, with an apologetic smile.

'Oh, thank you, I will, Doctor Hooper,' the woman gushed. 'Thank you so much! And it was so nice to have met you!'

'Yes, you too!' Molly replied, for the sake of social convention. In truth, she really just wanted the woman to leave so she could get on with her work. But that mean thought was accompanied by a pang of guilt. Nurse McCarthy was only trying to help, after all.

How Molly envied Sherlock, as she watched the nervous nurse exit through the heavy fire doors. He would have just told her to go away! Molly wished she could be more like him, sometimes! She checked her watch. Goodness, she had spent ten minutes talking to the woman. She would have to skip her coffee break to make up the time lost. Giving a resigned shake of the head, she went back into her office to conclude her report on Jared Shaw and then she would be off to the mortuary to carry out the post mortems on Nurse McCarthy's former charges.

ooOoo

True to her word, when Sherlock checked his emails – at his desk in the sitting room of 221B – Canon Rachel Morris had sent him all the information she had at her disposal with reference to the strange occurrences in Canterbury. Sherlock downloaded all the documents individually then sorted them into five files, one for each of the deceased and one for the many – mostly newspaper – reports of other encounters in the Dark Entry. Choosing a file at random, Sherlock opened that of David Wilson, the cathedral Organ Scholar, and the youngest of the 'victims' at just twenty-one years of age.

He began to read.

ooOoo

Molly drew the sheet back over the corpse of Mrs Iris Bowles, peeled off her surgical gloves and dropped them into the clinical waste bin then reached up to switch off the over-head microphone. She stood staring at the shrouded body, her brow wrinkled, deep in thought.

Prior to beginning this post mortem, she had studied Mrs Bowles medical records. The staff in attendance at the time when the patient passed had recorded classic symptoms of a myocardial infarction - a heart attack – which, considering the patient's age, did not seem too remarkable. In the process of her examination, Molly had found evidence of cardiogenic shock – the heart's muscles were so severely damaged that they could no longer contract properly to supply enough blood to maintain many body functions. However, other than that, Mrs Bowles' vital organs – most specifically her heart - were in remarkably good condition for a lady of her vintage. There was no narrowing of the arteries, no sign of a blood clot, nothing to explain why she had suffered a heart attack in the first place. The damage had all been caused by the attack itself.

Molly continued to stand and stare at the covered corpse for a further few minutes then, with a shake of her head, turned and strode away. She had ordered a tox screen as part of the post mortem procedure. She would have to see what that turned up. In the meantime, she would have the body returned to cold storage and would not sign off on it. The relatives – she assumed the lady had some - would have to wait a while longer to pay their last respects.

ooOoo

Amongst the documents supplied for David Wilson was the eulogy read at his funeral, which had taken place at the cathedral – an honour available to any individual who died whilst in the service of that institution. Sherlock chose to read this first, to get an idea of who this person was.

David Wilson had recently taken up his one year appointment as Organ Scholar at the beginning of September, having just graduated from the Guildhall School of Music. He had been a chorister at Southwell Minster in Nottinghamshire, as a child, from where he had progressed to Chetham's Music School in Manchester on a keyboard scholarship and then to the Guildhall, where he had specialised as an organist. His eulogist was at pains to say how it had always been David's ambition to be a church organist and how thrilled he had been to be given the opportunity to play the magnificent instrument in the cathedral.

According to the police report, on the night of his encounter in the Dark Entry, David had been practicing a piece he was to play the following Sunday – his first 'public' performance since his appointment at Canterbury. He had left the cathedral at ten o'clock, when Security came to lock up for the night, and was walking though the Dark Entry on his way to meet with friends at the Dolphin public house on St Radigunds Street, when he was startled by the sound of a woman's voice calling for assistance. He had looked in earnest for the source of the voice but found no one.

He had then made his way to the pub, leaving the precincts via the Mint Yard Gate, where he paused to share his experience with the Security Guard on duty. Up to this point, David had been ignorant of the Legend of the Dark Entry and when the guard told him, jokingly, about Nellie Cook and her Friday night exploits, he had just laughed and dismissed it all as a trick of the acoustics in that part of the ancient building. But, three weeks later, he was dead.

David had collapsed whilst playing a game of five-a-side football at the local sports centre and despite the best efforts of the other players, the centre staff and the paramedics who attended at the scene, he could not be resuscitated.

Sherlock turned to the young man's post mortem report. The post-mortem had been authorised by the local coroner, due to the sudden and unexpected demise of such a young person. A copy of the report had been obtained by David's family and they had shared it with Canon Morris at her request, on the understanding that it would only be shared on a 'need to know' basis.

Scanning through the detailed report, Sherlock soon found what he had been looking for – cause of death, Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. It transpired that the deceased had an undiagnosed heart condition which had resulted in his untimely demise. Theory confirmed, the Consulting Detective concluded - case closed.

Opening the next file, Sherlock read the biography. Elsie Gadget was ninety-three and a resident of St John's Hospital almshouses, on Northgate, a street very near to the precincts, having served the cathedral for forty years as a seamstress, making and repairing the clerical vestments. She had passed through the Dark Entry many times, over the years, and on most nights of the week without incident but on this particular occasion – the first Friday in October – she had reported being confronted by a lady dressed in black who smiled at her, sympathetically, and then disappeared.

Unlike David, Elsie was very familiar with the local legend and she took the encounter seriously. She told all her friends that she knew she was going to die and spent the next few weeks putting all her affairs in order. When she failed to open her curtains one morning, the almshouse superintendent entered her cottage and found that she had passed away – apparently peacefully – during the night. It stated on her Death Certificate that she died of natural causes – old age. Sherlock felt obliged to conclude, once again, case also closed.

With two down and two to go, Sherlock could see why the local police were not treating these deaths as suspicious. He pushed away from the desk and went to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Placing the coffee pot, a clean mug and the sugar bowl on a tray, Sherlock carried it through to the sitting room and sat back at his desk. He filled the mug with the aromatic brew, added two scoops of sugar and stirred it, slowly, taking a couple of sips before opening the next file.

Alan Jones was a stone mason, one of a team working on the restoration of the Great South Window, in the South West Transept of the cathedral. He had related to his work mates how he had been passing through the Dark Entry, late one Friday night, when he heard running footsteps approaching from the direction of the undercroft. He had paused, expecting the runner to pass by but the sound just stopped abruptly and no runner appeared.

Needless to say, his work mates were patently unimpressed and asked him how much he'd had to drink that night, since it was his practice to enjoy a jar or three in The Millers Arms on Mill Street, after work on a Friday. But Mr Jones stuck to his guns and insisted that his story was true. A week later, the man suffered a fatal motorcycle accident.

The newspaper report of the accident described how Mr Jones had lost control of his motorcycle and skidded into the path of an oncoming lorry at an infamous accident black spot on the A291 between Sturry and Herne Bay.

An inquest heard that the deceased had been found to have twice the legal limit of alcohol in his bloodstream at the time of death. The verdict of the court was he had died as a direct result of driving whilst under the influence of alcohol. The lorry driver was deemed innocent of all blame and no charges were brought. Third case closed.

The case of the fourth 'victim' was perhaps the most tenuous of all – and perhaps the most tragic. Sally Dawson had been a second year student at Canterbury Christchurch University, working part time as a Receptionist at the Cathedral Lodge hotel in order to support herself through her studies, when she told her close friends and fellow students how she had experienced a 'funny feeling' whilst passing through the Dark Entry at the end of one of her shifts.

But this fact did not come to light until after the young lady in question had met an untimely end as a result of over-heating at a campus party, after indulging in the so-called 'legal high' Mephedrone – also known as 'meow meow'. The police were pursuing a case against the person who had supplied the deceased with the substance and they were most definitely not interested in any suggestion of supernatural interference.

The various reports included in the fifth file, Sherlock afforded only a cursory glance. The sources were unreliable and he was quite sure could be accounted for as evidence of mass hysteria or just people wanting to get in on the act.

Closing all the files, Sherlock snapped shut the lid of his laptop and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head to release some of the tension brought on by hunching over his computer for such an extended period of time.

Reviewing all the information, the only thing any of these people had in common was a connection to the cathedral. The church was a major employer in the area, as well as a centre for worship and social and cultural activities. Nearly everyone in Canterbury had some sort of connection with the institution. And the nature of the encounters were all very different – some auditory, some visual, some 'hyper sensory'. This was the singular point he found to be of the greatest interest, though why, he really couldn't say.

ooOoo

**Must just say that I have absolutely no medical training at all so if I've made any major errors in my research of the medical details, sincere apologies!**

**Many thanks to all my patient readers and for your favs, follows and reviews. They are all very much appreciated. **

**I will try to up-date a bit quicker next time!**


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